Learning to Bend
by Skalidra
Summary: Dick is the Prince of Gotham, and when his life is threatened by assassins a guard has to be found to protect him, before he's forced into a confrontation that might reveal his identity as Nightwing. But guards can be bribed, so Bruce goes searching for someone unquestionably loyal. He finds Jason, a slave who hasn't yet been broken, and is willing to become Dick's companion.
1. Chapter 1

"You need to be more careful!"

"Oh come on," Dick snaps, with a sharp glare. "It was _one_ assassin, I could have handled him all by myself. I didn't need the guards and you know it, Bruce. You _know_ that. They're the ones that almost got me killed, if it had just been me I would have taken him down."

"But you _weren't_ alone," I press. " _You_ know that we can't afford to be seen to be as capable as we are, Dick. If you'd really fought that assassin the entire castle would have known by morning that you're not what you're pretending to be. If _anyone_ connects you to Nightwing we'll both be dead or run out of Gotham by the end of the week if not faster. _Don't_ argue with me."

I can see his teeth grind together, but the flick of his gaze to the floor tells me that I've won. Well I _should_ win; I'm right. I know that Dick is just frustrated that he can't protect himself if anyone is around to see it, not if we're going to keep our night time activities a secret and we _have_ to keep that secret. If anyone knew what we fight for, that we're _not_ just another pair of overindulgent royals, not even his title or the ancient blood in my veins would protect us.

There isn't much that scares me more than the thought of Dick being executed for what we do. I could take it happening to me, but seeing Dick die for what _I_ got him into? No. I'll put his life before mine every time. He's my _son_.

Dick's gaze meets mine again, and then he bows his head just a touch. "So what am I supposed to do?" he asks, grudging. "I can't just let myself get killed, and your guards are all over the place but they're not _useful_. Sorry, no offense meant."

"None taken," I reassure him. He's right. My guards are capable enough, but they're not made to stop professional assassins. They're _soldiers_. "You need a personal guard to stay with you." Dick winces, but doesn't outright argue. "Ideally, someone roughly as capable as either of us. That would keep you safe, with no risk of us being outed to the public."

"You put someone that close to me, I'm not going to be able to get out of here as often, Bruce. I won't give up Nightwing just for the sake of my safety, not that permanently. Don't ask me to." Now he's got that set to his shoulders that I _know_ means that Dick is ready to fight me on this. Endlessly, or until I talk him around with logic he can't argue with. I hardly ever win when he gets that particular look to him. "I get that I need someone around so I don't blow my persona, I _get_ that, but you know how important all of this is to me, Bruce."

"It won't be all the time," I try and soothe. "Just while you're around anyone else. A companion for the daytime, until you 'retire.' They don't have to stay with you while you sleep, and that should let you slip out as often as you want. A companion can be told to ignore it if you're not in your room; to assume that you've gone to visit some woman or something."

Dick makes a disgusted face, raising a hand to scrub over his face. "Oh, you're _kidding_ me. And you think that won't be all over the castle by morning too? People are gossips, Bruce. I know I'm just the charming, carefree prince, but _come on_. Really?"

I hesitate saying the thought in my head, because I already _know_ how he's going to react. "I won't put someone near you who can be bribed. They'd have to be loyal. Completely."

Dick goes completely still for a second, and then his hand drops and he snarls, " _No_." I knew he'd understand without me having to spell it out. "No, Bruce I _won't._ Damnit, Bruce, _no_."

"It's the best option," I argue. "Slaves are loyal, no one listens to them, and the amount of slaves who betray their masters is nearly zero percent."

"Because loyalty is _beaten_ into them," he snaps. "You _know_ how slaves are trained, Bruce. That's what we're fighting against; that's the point! I will _not_ treat someone as less than human. I won't call myself the owner of another human being, Bruce, and you should know better than to ask that of me. You _know_ what nearly happened to me as a kid, you _know_ my feelings about slavery!"

"And you know _mine_."

The thought of what Dick's life could have been like, was _almost_ like, still makes me sick to my gut. He's lucky that I was at the circus the night his parents died, and that I happened to be seeking him out to offer my sympathy. He still has the scar from when the traders bought him from the circus, when they tried to brand a nine year old child that was still mostly in shock from seeing the death of his parents. If I hadn't heard the screaming, wrenched him away from them, and used my title to protect him, Dick would have been a slave. Slave brands are as permanent as possible, and Dick is _so_ lucky that the burn scar across his right shoulder isn't recognizable as what it was supposed to be.

Even I can't change what someone is, not once they've been branded.

If my last name wasn't what it is, if I didn't have royal blood in my veins and the title ' _King_ ' in front of my name, I probably would have suffered the same fate. Orphan children are the most common source of slaves. I _despise_ it, but it's what my country supports and if I was outspoken about what I believe I'd be thrown off my throne. I do what I can, but it has to be small. At least in public.

When night falls, and I'm not being watched, then I can do real good. 'Batman' isn't the name I would have chosen, but it's what the public chose to call me. I do everything I can to help the people I _can't_ help as King, and when he found out, Dick joined me. When he was younger it was as 'Robin,' but he graduated to an older title, a separate one. Nightwing.

I couldn't be more proud of him.

"Think of something else, Bruce." Dick's voice is flat, uncompromising. "I won't own a slave. That's not a line I'm willing to blur, so you find a different way or we leave this idea right here."

"Dick—"

"Find. Another. Way." He steps back, shaking his head. "I'm going out. I'll be on coms if you need me."

It's probably not a good idea, but I let him go. Once he's out of the room I raise my left hand, massaging my forehead as I brace my other hand on my hip.

I understand Dick's refusal, but I know that I'm right. Any guard, any mercenary, can be bribed with the right amount or thing. I don't want to put Dick near someone that's that dangerous — and I _need_ them to be dangerous to protect him — but might turn on him. I trust Dick to be able to take care of himself, but that doesn't mean that I don't worry for his safety. A personal guard would have all the perfect opportunities to kill him, and all it would take is one person with enough resources to make that happen. I won't put him in that kind of danger.

There are two other options.

A friend; someone Dick trusts _intimately_ and I can trust to keep him safe. But that invites a personal connection, and Dick would never put one of his friends in the way of danger aimed at him. That won't work. I really am proud of how selfless he can be, but it also makes protecting him _frustrating_ sometimes.

The second option is the one Dick is refusing. A slave. Slaves are hardly ever spoken to; they're made for entertainment or service and nothing more. There are some slaves that are trained to eloquence, to mentally engage as well as physically, but those are much rarer. Usually those are trained by their masters from a young age, or by request. The normal slave is ignored until something is needed from them, and that makes them _perfect_ for a guard no one would suspect, and no one would try to turn on him. Dick is right though, slaves are only loyal because they're trained to be terrified of anything but loyalty. The rebellious ones are killed fairly early on, publicly and violently, as warnings to the rest.

Well, not all of them.

The ones who are good looking enough are saved sometimes, tortured until they break and can be molded just like the rest. Maybe… It's a tiny chance, a _mad_ chance.

Maybe I can find one that's been branded, but not broken. One with spirit, with _strength_ , but that's already condemned to a life of slavery. I could train a slave like that to fight, and it's possible that I could make a deal. A slave like that might be willing to trade protection for the promise of never being a slave in anything but name. It might work.

But what are the chances that I could find someone like that?

* * *

I grind my teeth together, jerking against the chains around my wrists and trying not to shake, not to _scream_. I won't give this motherfucker the satisfaction.

I can't help slumping when the prod pulls back though, and the electricity leaves my system. My weight hangs from my wrists for a second, until I force my knees to work and then drag in a sharp breath. I wrap my hands around the chains and pull, dragging myself back to my feet and taking the weight off of my arms. I've dislocated my shoulders one too many times to let my weight sit like that. My right leg shakes, twitching in leftover shock, and I bare my teeth and raise my gaze. I snarl at the man watching me, meeting his eyes through the fall of my hair. It's soundless, but that's only because my throat doesn't like making noise right now. It's too dry. I'll save what little voice I have left for real words.

His eyes narrow, and he steps to the side and taps the table behind him. It draws my attention to the pitcher of water there — plastic; they stopped giving me anything glass or metal after the second torturer that I stabbed.

"This can stop," he coaxes. " _One_ word, slave. That's all it takes."

I curl my mouth into a grin, letting it be a show of my teeth. "Asshole," I spit out, and follow it with a bark of laughter when his expression tightens with frustration. "Not the word you were looking for, motherfucker?" My voice is rough, but I force myself to swallow and get a little moisture into my throat. It doesn't really work, but I've got bigger things to be concerned about.

Like the way that my torturer takes the pitcher of water and hurls the contents at me. I get a few stray drops in my mouth, but the rest splashes over me and god it's fucking _cold_. I can't help the hard shiver, shaking my head to get some of it out of my hair. I can feel it sliding over my skin, feel goosebumps rising across my skin as the muscle over my ribs contracts automatically. I shove out a breath, resisting licking at my lips or trying to get any more of the water into my mouth.

He sets the pitcher down deliberately, and then steps forward and traces the prod up the center of my chest. It's off, but the metal is almost as cold as the water and the threat behind it is obvious. He presses it to the hollow of my throat, and I can see his thumb hovering over the switch on the side.

"You just sacrificed water for the day. Was it worth it, slave?" His voice probably isn't as calm as he'd like, and I flash him as sharp a grin as I can manage.

"Kiss my ass," I hiss at him.

The prod drops to my ribs, and I shout when he turns it on. _Fire_ slices up my side, and I absolutely can't stop myself from trying to jerk and twist away. It's automatic, and the prod follows me, forcing my body into a sideways arch, held in place by the chains around my wrists and my ankles. It's a particularly tender spot, low on my ribs and right over bone. I know all of my most tender spots by heart at this point. I know _exactly_ how much pain someone can cause me without actually breaking my skin, and those soft spots are where they target.

At least they can't do more than that. Scars would take my price down, and the rest I can handle. I can _take it_.

It feels like I can't _breathe_ when he finally pulls it away, like my lungs are seizing, and my next breath is short and ragged. I'm shaking, and I can feel my shoulders straining under my weight. The prod hooks underneath my chin, pushing my head up, and I open my eyes even as I snarl on pure automatic.

"Why are you doing this to yourself, slave?" he asks. "When you disobey, the only person you're hurting is yourself."

I force another grin. "I dunno, seems to piss _you_ off." My voice comes out a little bit breathless, but I force myself to stand again, to get up and twist my head to knock the prod away from my chin. "Peter, right? You know, my middle name's Peter. Never liked it."

His expression tightens, and I bare my teeth in challenge and then snap them at him. He's not nearly close enough to actually catch, but that's only because he's careful. I've bitten other people that dared to get close to me; I've outlasted three other trainers, this one is just the latest. It's like I'm their goddamn pet project, I honestly don't _get_ why they're still trying to break me. They have to have spent more effort on me than they're getting back at this point. It's not like they can show me off as some kind of warning to the newer recruits. They tried, once. I broke one guard's leg and the other's nose before they brought me down.

I haven't seen another slave in a long time, except the beaten, cowed ones that clean up this cell. This cell has been my life for… Too long. I don't know how long, honestly. It's a scary thought, so I try not to think about it. What's outside these walls doesn't matter anyway. My life is my own body, these walls, and _never_ giving in to these torturing bastards.

I am not a thing, I am not _property_ , and I will not let them break me. I _won't_.

"I'm going to _enjoy_ using you tonight," he snaps, his voice finally matching his expression as he jams the prod up against my throat hard enough I have to jerk away just to breathe.

I glare back. "Oh yeah, 'cause _that's_ new. Just been faking this whole time, huh? Can't _wait_ to see how big you are when you're actually hard; gotta be bigger than that _pencil_ you've usually got."

 _Rage_.

I brace for pain, to have that prod jammed up against something a _lot_ more sensitive than just my ribs, but then the door opens. My gaze snaps up, and I get one sharp shock to my side before he's turning too. It forces the breath out of my lungs, makes me jerk, but I clench my teeth together and don't give him the satisfaction of any kind of sound.

The man that enters is dressed in expensive looking fabric that's distinctly androgynous, and I recognize him as the owner of this place. He's never spoken to me, never stooped _low_ enough to be within ten feet of me except for right now, but I've seen him before. I think the curse I shouted at him had something to do with goats, but honestly the thing I remember most about that day is how _badly_ they hurt me for it. I haven't had very many days that were the equal of that.

What the hell is he doing _here?_

Peter bows his head, bringing the prod halfway behind his back. "Sir."

The owner's gaze lifts to me, and he sweeps a little further into the room, carefully avoiding the water splashed onto the floor. The door is still open, and I hold my tongue and just watch as a second man comes through the door. Even taller than I am, solid build with _muscle_ , grey-blue eyes and short black hair. Holy _fuck_ I know that face.

I shift my weight on my feet, staring warily at the goddamn _King_ . Peter is frozen stiff; he looks completely shocked before he suddenly drops to both knees and breathes, " _Majesty_ ."

There's a tiny flicker of distaste on the King's face — I am _trying_ to remember what his name is, but it's not quite coming — but he barely even looks at my torturer. His gaze quickly flicks to me, holding at my _eyes_ of all things. Here I am, completely fucking naked and chained in place, and the King of all goddamn Gotham is looking at _me_ . Not my body, but _me_ .

Then the _fire_ is back, spreading from the back of my left knee, and I cry out because I'm not expecting it at all. I jerk my weight off that leg, arching and recognizing that the prod's been turned up a notch. It only lasts a couple of moments, and then I'm released. I manage to keep my feet this time, but I can feel the press of the prod lingering at my knee; a threat.

"Eyes _down_ , slave," is Peter's order.

The owner makes a small sound that's definitely displeased. "As you can see, he's ill-behaved. We're correcting his behavior, your majesty, but he's not fit to be sold yet. There's really no point in you inspecting him, sir."

"I think that's my call, isn't it?" I lift my gaze again, towards the source of the deep, _strong_ voice. I meet his look, curling my mouth into a snarl because _fuck_ him. I won't be a slave, not even to a King. His hand jerks in a sharp gesture, gaze flicking down towards Peter. "Don't, that's enough."

I'm _pretty_ sure that he just saved me from another shock, and that's the only reason that I hold my tongue. I watch him as he steps forward, judging the distance and considering what I can do to hurt him. Hurting the King is probably suicidal, but it might be fun. Too bad the only real weapon I have left is my teeth, and pretty much no one is stupid enough to bring anything of theirs close to my mouth. Not until they've forced me into that fucking ring gag anyway, for the nightly humiliation of getting fucked by any and everyone who works here and wants a shot. Guards mostly; I got used to it even if I never got over hating it.

"Can you speak?" he asks, and I bare my teeth a little more obviously as he takes another step, his feet hitting the puddle of water around me.

"More or less," I spit, considering his clothes. He's in a tailored suit, black, and it looks _good_ on him. I guess I shouldn't have expected anything else from a rich bastard like this. "They selling fucking tickets to gawk now or is that just your _kink?_ "

I'm expecting the shock I get for that, so I just jerk and curl my hands around the chains, a grunt being driven from my chest at the pain.

"Enough!" the King snaps, and just like that the shock is done. I sag a little bit, dragging my eyes open and catching the edge of irritation in the King's expression. "Out, both of you." His voice is almost a growl, rough and low with threat. " _Now_ ."

I've honestly never seen Peter nor the owner move as fast they do. I've never seen Peter look quite that nervous either. The door shuts, and the King glances around the room. The way his gaze flicks to the corners of the room makes me think that he's looking for cameras, and I catch my breath and just watch him. There aren't any, not right now anyway. When there are, they're large, obvious, and meant to make me aware that every move I make is being recorded for their fucked up enjoyment. It's just a psychological tactic; I'm getting pretty damn familiar with those too.

The King's gaze comes back to me, and there's something appraising in his eyes but still, the only place he's looking is my eyes. I hold his gaze, trying to show him that I'm not going to back down. Not to him, not to _anyone_ . I keep my mouth flat though; he hasn't really threatened me yet, and he stopped the shocks. He's not being an outright pervy son of a bitch either, so I can hold myself in check for right now. I only have so much energy and I need to save what I can. I _know_ what I've already done is going to get me a whole lot of punishment as soon as they have free reign with me again.

Finally, when my breath is slow and steady and my leg's stopped twitching, I twitch my mouth into half a snarl. "You going to just stand there and stare all fucking day?" I bait. "Usually old, rich _fucks_ like you are more interested in things that _aren't_ my eyes."

I swear that flicker in his eyes is amusement. "Do you know who I am?" he asks, and I snort.

"Yeah, I know. Can't remember your name at the moment, but you're the King." I yank at the chains around my wrist, curling my mouth into a slightly wider snarl. "For some reason, I'm not a real big fan. You wanna guess why?"

"It's Bruce Wayne," he tells me, his voice quiet. "If it helps, I'm not supportive of slavery."

"But here you are. Get off your fucking high horse, _King_ . I'd bow but one, I'm kinda stuck, and two, I'd rather break your _goddamn_ nose."

The King's mouth curls in a small smirk, and then he's clasping his hands behind his back. "I have an offer for you."

I roll my eyes. "Did you not _just_ hear me? If you're looking to buy me, or try and make some kind of deal to make me obey, you might as well just _fuck off_ . I won't be your fucking property. I _won't_ be a slave for you, or anyone."

His expression falls a touch, and he glances towards my right shoulder. At this angle he won't be able to see much of it, but I know he's looking for the scar of my brand. Then he meets my gaze again. "I don't think you're that stupid," he says frankly, and my mouth snaps into a snarl as I jerk forwards at him. "I think you have a mind behind that attitude, and I think you _know_ that it's too late."

"What the _fuck_ are you trying to say?" I snap.

Bruce's gaze is steady. Calm. "The moment you were branded your chance at a normal life was gone. Not even I can change a slave's status in society, and everyone who sees that brand will know what that status is. You'll _never_ be a normal person again, and you know that. I understand why you're fighting, but I'm offering a way out. You don't have to say yes, and if you refuse me I'll leave it at that. I'm not trying to control you."

His words ring truer than I want them to, and I bite back the answer on my tongue. I stare at him for a long few moments, and then shift my weight and give a small nod. "I'm listening."

"What's your name?" he asks, and I twitch a bit.

I work it on my tongue for a moment before I tell him, "Jason. Jason Todd."

He bows his head for just a moment, almost in something like _respect_ which is weird as fuck, before meeting and holding my gaze again. "My son's life has been in danger recently," he starts, his voice soft. "He needs a guard, and I need someone I can trust to be at his side. Someone who won't be turned against him and put a knife between his ribs for a high enough price."

I get it. "People don't pay attention to slaves," I put in, "and the only thing I want," _freedom_ , "no one can give me."

Another small bow of his head. "Yes, I thought you were smarter than they told me."

"Yeah?" I snort. "What did they tell you?"

A tiny smirk. "That you were 'densely stubborn.' At least one of those words is right, but I tend to think that stubbornness is a good thing." I roll my eyes again. "I can teach you how to fight. You'd be a slave in name and look, but _nothing_ else, I swear to you. You'd be my son's personal companion, so no one else would have the right to so much as touch you. He's against slavery, _strongly_ . He would never touch you without your permission, and the only thing that would be expected of you is that you stay mostly behaved in public."

I shift my weight, studying his expression and pulling a bit at my chains. "What _exactly_ does that mean? Be straight with me, I am _not_ doing this on some vague-as-fuck terms like that."

"To stay quiet," he answers. "To stay by his side and hold your tongue, that's _all_. You would never be expected to perform, and being a prince's companion would allow you to get away with being less obedient. No avoiding eye contact, no submission, no taking orders from _anyone_ but him and me, and then only when it was absolutely necessary. In return, I get you out of here, I teach you how to fight, and you live the rest of your life in my castle at my son's side. You can spend your time however you want; he won't need you all the time and he won't stop you from pursuing whatever interests you."

I stay silent, trying to _think_. Trying to figure out exactly what this would be and if I'm missing anything about it that might bite me in the ass later.

"There's no guarantee," the King murmurs, "and I think you know that. You have my word, but there's nothing else I can give you. But, if you come with me, you'll be out of here." His mouth curls into a very small smile, and he holds my gaze. "You'll have a much better chance of escaping my castle than the cells here, if that's what you decide to do. If you can get out of Gotham, you might be able to get to a country that doesn't support slavery. It's a thought, anyway."

My jaw works, teeth clenching for a second. "You'd brand me," I point out, and Bruce pauses for a moment before he nods. I look away, considering the options. Not that I really _have_ options.

I say yes, I go with the King and become a hidden guard for the Prince. I get branded with the symbol of his house, but it sets me up for a better life no matter what. Even if the King and Prince are secretly the most _fucked_ up, kinky sons of bitches that exist, it would be hard for it to be worse than here. Possible, but the King doesn't strike me as that kind of a sadist, and I'm usually a pretty good judge of character. He's right too. Even a castle would probably be easier to break out of — especially as a slave — than these cells. Training centers like this are designed to hold slaves until they're ready to be sold, slaves already in the world aren't guarded well; it's assumed they're already obedient. I'd have a decent chance of escaping the country, especially if the King's got the views on slaves that he seems to.

If I say no, I stay here. Life goes on, and I fade into the endless torture and humiliation until I can't take it anymore and finally snap. I'm not naive, I _will_ break eventually. No one can hold out forever. I'd held out for the hope that they were going to kill me, but eventually I found out that won't happen either. I'm tall, I'm good-looking, my brand is clean, and I've got the white streak of hair over my left eye that's actually natural. It makes me _exotic_ , and 'exotic' sells for a fuckload of money. They'll break me eventually.

Slowly, I give a nod. "Alright," I agree. "If you can get me out of here, I'll be a guard for your son. Deal."

"Deal," the King agrees. "I suppose I'll have to trust your word just as much as you'll have to trust mine."

"I think you've got a _bit_ more of a safety net to fall back on than I do. Just a bit."

A flicker of a smirk, and then the King nods. He takes a look around the room, and then zeros in on the controls for the chains at my wrists. He crosses over to them with a few long strides, and then easily — like he knows exactly what he's doing — shoves the lever to release the tension on the chains. The sudden lack of support drops me to my knees, and I wince as my shoulders come down, the joints screaming at me for how they've been abused. I breathe through my teeth, slowly rolling them to try and stretch the muscles out a bit and ease the ache. I hold my still chained wrists near my chest, feeling the cold slide of the slack in the chain as it drapes down over my left shoulder.

I raise my gaze back up to the King, and find him pulling the keys to my cuffs off of that hook in the corner. I get back to my feet as he turns towards me, and then he's tossing the keys my direction. Without thinking, I raise my hands and snag the flying keys out of the air. There's only two on the ring; one for my wrists and one for my ankles. I twist my fingers in to reach the hole on the shackles, and it feels _good_ to hear the snap of them unlocking. I shake the manacles off, rolling my wrists and my shoulders and trying not to dwell on how strange it feels for them to be so light. I sink down to my knees to get the ones around my ankles, ignoring the weight of the stare on my shoulders as the King watches.

After a few moments the only thing that's still binding me is the brand on my shoulder, and that's the only thing that I can never take off. So I toss the keys back to the King as I stretch out, rolling my weight around and trying out how it feels to be able to move freely. I got too used to the feeling of weights dragging on my ankles and wrists, of steel against my skin at all times.

I don't know if it's arrogance or trust that lets the King walk back towards me without even a little bit of wariness, but it doesn't _look_ like arrogance. It looks like confidence.

"Don't hurt anyone?" he asks, with a tinge of amusement. "This will go a lot smoother if you don't cause any trouble."

I snort but then meet his gaze, raising my chin. "They don't touch _me_ , I won't touch _them_ . That good enough for you, Bruce?"

He smirks. "Sounds fair."


	2. Chapter 2

Welcome back! So here we divert over to Dick's PoV, and we get to see some first meetings happen. Hope you enjoy!

 **Warnings** this chapter for: Branding, and references to past torture.

* * *

"Prince?"

I tilt my head towards the guard approaching my shoulder, holding the easy smile on my face with the ease of practice. "What is it?" I ask, keeping half an eye on the noble I was talking to. Nothing important, just idle chitchat and gossip to reinforce that I'm nothing more than Bruce's carefree son. We get a lot of our information from people too stupid to watch their tongues around me, and I can share that with Bruce so he can use it against them. It works for us.

"A call from the King, sir," the guard says, offering me a phone.

Okay, a _little_ weird because I know Bruce is in the castle — or at least he was this morning — but not unheard of. Maybe he just doesn't want to offer anyone the chance to try and draw him into a conversation, and _god_ they would. It happens, and Bruce has so little patience reserved for trying to get along and be polite and engaging to nobles. Especially when he's not in full control of the situation. He always has real work to do, either on actual King-related business, or our definitely illegal nighttime activities.

I take the phone, stepping away from the noble with an apologetic smile. "Excuse me." I get the phone to my ear, and ask, "Yeah, Dad?" Playing to the audience as much as I'm telling Bruce that I'm around other people so he needs to not be explicit about anything he might not want them to hear.

" _Dick, could you come to my room please?"_ He doesn't sound distracted, but he does sound serious. 'Real' business then.

"Sure," I answer easily. "Be there in a minute."

I end the call and toss the phone back to the guard — decent reflexes on this one; he actually catches it — before I turn back to the noble. He looks a touch knowing, but he's patiently waiting. More honestly, he's waiting for me to give him whatever information he can glean off of me. Our games go both ways. They let things slip around me because they don't think I'm paying attention, and they try to get me to let things slip because I'm not supposed to know what's important.

"Sorry," I say with a smile. "When the King calls…"

"Even you?" the noble jokes, and I give a laugh.

" _Especially_ me." I turn and head out of the room, keeping my step light and only slightly longer than normal until I'm out of sight. Then I let the smile fall off of my face and roll my eyes. I have more patience than Bruce, but not much. He gets to be more serious and responsible because he _is_ the King. I don't. I'm not supposed to be anything but the carefree, pretty son.

Why the _hell_ did I choose to have this be my persona? Oh right, because I thought smiling and laughing would be easy, and then no one could see that I was actually smart or that I cared, and I just fell into it. Awesome.

I slip deeper into the castle, slipping through security checkpoints with nothing more than a smile and then one brief scan just to make sure my DNA matches the records. Gotham doesn't get the supernatural element within its borders much, but it happens, and shapeshifters are a thing. No one can match DNA though, even if they can match a voice, face, and expression.

Bruce takes security seriously, and he's got reason to. His opinions don't tend to match up with the rest of the powers that help rule Gotham, and his word might be law but he has to be _careful_ about what he's known to believe. Not even a King can get away with going against all of the other nobles helping support him. That's a quick way to get assassinated.

I flash a last smile at the guard standing at Bruce's door, and then slip past him and into his rooms. I close the door behind me. It's soundproof, this is one of the only places where Bruce lets privacy override security. My rooms are another. Having guards outside able to hear a struggle isn't worth them possibly overhearing what we talk about. Even without the threat of gossip, or someone leaking information, half the time what we're talking about would be enough to get us both executed. Even with who we are.

I stride in, my gaze falling first on Bruce and then sweeping the sitting room once, automatically. Which is why I see the other man in the room almost instantly.

He's almost as tall as Bruce, leaning against the wall to my left and a decent ways away from Bruce, who's directly opposite the door. Short black hair that looks like it's been recently washed, with a white streak dipping down over his forehead and into vivid blue-green eyes that are a bit narrowed and focused on me. His arms are crossed, one knee bent, and because of the angle I can _instantly_ see the darker scar of a slave brand across his right shoulder. It's bared by the style of shirt he's wearing, long sleeved but with the shoulders cut out in circles; it's a slave shirt. The thick X of the brand proves it beyond a doubt; I can't see what's on his other shoulder yet but if he's _here_ …

"Bruce—" I cut myself off, grinding my teeth together and biting back the curses on my tongue. "I said _no_." I turn to the mystery man — the _slave_ — and force myself not to aim the anger at him. "I'm sorry, you shouldn't be here. I _told_ him that I wouldn't own a slave." Something about the way he's looking at me doesn't feel right, but then Bruce is moving towards me and I focus back on him and spit, "And I _meant_ it."

"Dick, just listen to me for a moment."

"We _had_ this conversation. I won't own another human being, or slave, or pet, or whatever you call them in your head to make this less _disgusting_. What part of 'no' didn't you understand?!" Bruce is standing in front of me now, and he looks tight and drawn in. Like he's just enduring what I'm saying until he can throw out whatever his reasons are and try and make me agree with them. I hate it when he gets like this, it means that we're in for one hell of a shouting match because I'm not going to back down, and he's convinced that he's right. Do we have to do it with an _audience_ though?

Bruce's mouth presses into a thin line, and his voice is still low and calm. "I understood. If you would listen for just a second, I can explain why—"

"It better be _damn_ good," I snarl.

"Hey," snaps a voice, deeper than mine but not as deep as Bruce's, and too close for what I remember.

I turn my head to look, to confirm that it's the mystery slave standing too close, who just _spoke_ to me, and I get one look at narrowed blue-green eyes and a flash of teeth. Then a fist crashes into my cheek with enough force to snap my head to the side and knock me down to one knee. I brace my hand on the floor to keep from falling all the way to the ground, the sharp ache of a well-delivered punch sinking into the bone underneath my eye as I gasp. My gaze slides over the shine of Bruce's shoes as I raise it back up, and find the slave all but snarling down at me as he shakes out his hand.

"I am not your _goddamn pet_ ," he says, and his voice is dark and rough, the traces of a street accent clinging to his words. I can only stare for a second because all of my feelings and opinions aside there are things I hold to just be facts. One of them is that slaves _never_ have the kind of anger blazing in the gaze staring down at me. It doesn't make sense. "There," the slave snaps at Bruce, "now he's fucking listening."

Bruce looks somewhere between irritated and long suffering, but he offers me his hand anyway. I take it.

"You told me to find another way," he reminds me as he pulls me back to my feet. "I did. Dick, this is Jason. Jason, this is Dick."

I rub at my cheek, and Jason holds my gaze without an ounce of humility or subservience to his expression. A closer looks lets me see that there are faint circles under his eyes, a wary edge to his look, and the way he's holding himself says he's defensive. The body language clicks together slower than I'd like it to, but then I realize that yes, he's angry, and yes, he's challenging, but he's also expecting to be hurt for what he just did. I guess that's a pretty damn logical reaction when you punch the Prince right in front of the King.

I let my gaze flick to Bruce, and then back to Jason, "What's going on?" I ask of both of them. Jason snorts, but doesn't answer me, and when Bruce doesn't either I point out, "That's a real brand." It's not fake, I'm sure. I've seen enough slave brands to know when one's been faked, and the one showcased on Jason's right shoulder isn't just real, it's professional. A bigger company made that one, or a private and wealthy one.

Considering his attitude, I'm going to say it _wasn't_ a private one.

"Jason has agreed to be your new guard," Bruce finally admits, and I snap my gaze up to him. "We made a deal."

Kings don't make _deals_ with slaves, but I swallow back the disbelief and take another look at Jason. The brand is old scar tissue, not new, and it looks like he's had it for years. That means that there's really only two options for what he could be. The first option is an escaped slave, one that managed to get out early, but not early enough to escape a brand. The second is that Jason is one of those _very_ rare slaves that managed to tolerate their trainer's methods and not break. The circles, and that wariness and _expectation_ of pain that I can see in him, make me think that it's the second option. It means that legally, Jason is a slave and that comes with all of the societal expectations and view of him. But no slave would ever _dare_ to look me in the eye without an invitation, let alone speak to me, let alone _punch_ me.

"What kind of deal?" I ask, instead of saying any of the thoughts in my head.

Bruce's head tilts towards Jason, and they share a look before Jason bares his teeth for a second with a small, rumbling snarl. But then he looks towards me. "I let the world think I'm your slave, I keep you from being gutted by an assassin, and in return no one ever fucking touches me again." His eyes narrow a little further. " _No one_."

Including me. I can read what he's not saying.

I look at Bruce, trying to understand his motivations. True, a slave — even one that isn't actually broken — wouldn't be paid attention to. If Jason is at my side it'll be ignored as the thought that turns my stomach, that I'm keeping him around for sex or at least entertainment. Slaves, as long as they're either too terrified to rebel or treated well, can't be bribed. I don't have to ask Jason to know that he doesn't want to be a slave, and he wants a life back. That can't happen. No one can offer him that.

It's all the benefits of a slave, without the moral issues of condoning the ways that slaves are trained and made. It still doesn't sit right in my gut. I don't want to try and think about what the trainers have put him through, and what he's taken and tolerated to not be broken and cowed like the rest of the slaves. Not for the _years_ that his healed brand implies. Just the thought sickens me a bit.

"I don't like this," I tell Bruce, making it _very_ clear that I don't approve of what he's done, "but alright. What's my part?"

Bruce holds my gaze for a moment, but it's Jason that speaks. "I don't give one _fuck_ if you like me," he snaps, taking half a step forward and I have to strangle back my automatically violent reaction to the threat in his posture.

I turn to face him, tilting my chin up as he glares down at me. "That's _not_ what I said." I force myself to take in a deeper breath, and bring a bit of the calmer, placating tone I use as Nightwing into my voice. It's the one I use when I'm dealing with slaves so terrified that they've snapped back around to aggression towards anything that threatens the status quo of their lives. "I'm not your enemy, Jason. I don't want to hurt you."

His eyes narrow as he snorts. "I'll believe that when you give me any fucking reason to, _Dick_."

"Enough," Bruce intercedes, probably reading the sharp rise in my temper. "Dick, you'll help me train Jason how to fight. Is that understood?"

"You mean order someone else to?" Jason counters, looking at Bruce with disdain sharp in his eyes.

It feels _good_ to step forward and hook my leg behind Jason's, throwing the weight of my shoulder into the center of his chest. I can also see Bruce's gaze flick up like a silent, resigned prayer as I do it. Jason _does_ react, but it's surprise more than anything else and he's not fast enough or skilled enough to stop himself from toppling over. He falls, eyes wide, and I follow him down with my hand to the center of his chest, driving my weight right through Jason until he hits the floor. It knocks the breath right out of him, his back arching, face twisting into something between strain and pain. When his eyes flick open again after a second they're still wide, still surprised. I let go of his shirt, shoving down on his chest as I get back to my feet.

I take a second to just breathe, to push away the rising coals of my temper as Jason pushes himself up on his elbows. "I won't judge you just because you're a slave," I say, forcing myself to stay calm though I can't wipe all of the anger out of my expression. " _Don't_ judge me just because I'm a prince. That sound fair enough to you?"

I watch his jaw clench down, but he gives a short, jerky nod after a few moments of staring up at me. "Yeah," he says, every inch of his tone grudging. "Fair _enough_." I offer my hand, and for a second I'm convinced that he's going to ignore it, but then his chin dips just a touch and he reaches up. His grip is strong, but I can tell that the fact that I don't have to really brace to pull him up is another thing that surprises him.

He's tall, he's got a solid build, but the muscle on his frame looks like it's the kind of muscle that comes from survival. It's close to his bones, almost all the spare fat stripped from his frame in a way that isn't _healthy_. He's not that heavy; he wouldn't hold a candle against Bruce and I'd bet that I'm stronger than he is. He'll need time to even out from whatever his trainers did to try and break him, and more past that to gain some weight on top of his bones and put muscle over it. I would bet my tongue that those methods included at least some measure of dehydration and starvation. Not enough to really _damage_ him — trainers are _very_ good at causing pain without leaving permanent marks that would take down the price of their product — but enough to sap his strength or even make him delirious.

Most slaves don't hold up for more than a month. The ones with the strength of will to tolerate it for longer than half a year are usually just killed, unless…

My gaze flicks up to that streak of white hair in Jason's hair, hanging down above his left eye with a faint curl.

Unless they're abnormally attractive, lack any disfiguring marks, and something makes them unique. Jason drew pretty much the ultimate bad hand of traits. I don't even want to _think_ about what Bruce probably paid for him, even with the negative that Jason hasn't actually been trained to obedience. Attractively unique is _expensive_ , even with flaws.

Jason lets go of my hand, drawing back into the wary and defensive body language he started in. He holds my look for another few moments, and then his gaze snaps to the floor, somewhere between me and Bruce. "Great, this all sounds just fucking fantastic." His left shoulder rolls, that hand drawing into a fist, and his expression is challenging when he looks up at Bruce. "Pull out the brand and get it over with, _King_."

I wince before I can stop myself, and Bruce's expression tightens as he asks, "Are you sure—?"

"It has to fucking happen," Jason snaps, his head rising another couple inches. "Just fucking do it. I'll sit still and everything; won't even have to hold me down."

"Bruce—"

"Alright," Bruce agrees, cutting off whatever warning or caution was going to come out of my mouth. "Take a seat, Jason. Let's make this formal."

He turns first, heading for his desk. Jason hesitates for a moment, but then he catches me watching and the flicker of what's almost fear in his eyes sharpens into a snarl as he whirls away. I swallow away the lump in my throat as I follow Jason over to the collection of armchairs circled around a low coffee table. It's where Bruce entertains his most 'trusted' political allies, which really only means the allies that he needs to _think_ that they're important to him. Jason drops into one of the chairs, and like it's not even something that matters to him he reaches behind his neck and grabs the shirt to drag it off of his head and arms.

I take another seat — where he can see me — and absolutely stop myself from taking anything more than a glance at the revealed swath of skin. Pale, flawless, and smooth, with no scars or even marks that I can see. The X of the slave brand is the only disruption, and Jason drops his shirt to his lap and hooks his left arm over the back of the chair. It bares his left shoulder, the one that's still empty because he's never had an owner. No one's ever branded him with the symbol of their house before, and I really _hate_ the idea that we're going to be the first.

I don't need to get to know him to see that Jason was never even slightly suited to a life of subservience. I don't know how he got dragged into being a slave, but every inch of how I've taught myself to read people tells me that it was _dragged_. Clearly, he never gave in. I can't imagine how much that's cost him.

Bruce crosses the room, and I know he's making sure that Jason can hear his footsteps on the thick carpet. Jason's head twitches that direction, but he doesn't turn to look until Bruce is at his back. Even then he only twists his head a bit and doesn't really look. One tiny shift of his head that might be a nod, and Bruce raises his hands. One wraps around Jason's left arm, just above his elbow, and the other is holding the short metal rod of the branding tool. Bruce looks steeled to the task and Jason's gaze is fixed on the floor across the room, his breath coming just a touch faster than what's normal. He still fits the metal against the outside of Jason's shoulder.

There's one moment of pause before Bruce flips the switch to turn the brand on.

Jason goes rigid, and I can see his free hand curl into a fist as his lips peel back and bare teeth. But he doesn't move, he doesn't jerk away and ruin the brand. Not a single sound makes it through his teeth, and that tells me more about his tolerance for pain than I think I ever wanted to know.

Nausea swirls in my stomach, but I keep my eyes on Jason. I owe him that much; this is all for _me_ and hating that fact doesn't make it any less true. I weather the dull ache of my right shoulder — just sympathy pain, it's not real — and the way the scent of burned flesh lingers in my nose and makes me remember the hard grip of hands and the faceless men who tried to brand _me_. I can't ever forget that night. It's burned into my mind as permanently as the scar on my shoulder.

Bruce looks _disgusted_ with himself as he pulls the tool away and lets go of Jason, who stays utterly still for a long few seconds. Then Jason rolls his shoulder forward — his expression twists a bit with bitten back pain — and pulls his arm close to his chest. I get my first glimpse of the fresh brand as he half-turns, and I can't help the way my breath catches at the sight of Bruce's crest. The hard lines of the blocky W, the inside shape of undamaged skin suggesting the shape of two skyscrapers. Recreated from much older crests as times went on, and finally completely revamped by Bruce's parents into that shape.

It feels _wrong_ to see that mark in the form of a brand.

Jason jerks a little bit when Bruce drops the brand to the floor, whirling to look at him and then staring as Bruce strides for the door and leaves without another word. Jason looks incredulous, but as the door closes it slides into a furious sort of resignation. His thumb slides over his own arm, and then he turns away from the door and cranes his neck to look down at the brand. He stares for a couple of seconds, and then lets go and tosses his shirt onto the table between us with a sharp kind of finality. The brand doesn't seem to be really affecting him, or at least it's not hampering his movement enough for me to notice.

"You alright?" I ask, after a stretch of silence.

Jason's gaze flicks up to meet mine, anger still easy to read in his expression. "Fine; I've taken worse." His tone is somewhere between bitter and angry when he comments, "Looks like it freaked out your dear old _dad_ more than anything else."

"He—" I stop myself from defending Bruce, as much as it's my gut reaction. "He shouldn't have left," I agree. "Will you let me bind that up?"

"No," he snaps, and before I can try and convince him he shakes his head. "Don't know jack shit about how to treat a brand, do you?"

"Not when the brand is supposed to stay," I admit. "I know how to treat burns, but…" My words fail me, and then I can't do anything but duck my head down and raise a hand to scrub across my face. "I— I'm sorry about all of this. I never wanted to—"

"Shut the _fuck_ up." It startles me into silence, and my gaze rises to meet Jason's. "I don't want your pity or your guilt, alright? You haven't done a goddamn thing to me that I didn't agree to, which is more than I can say for pretty much everyone who's come near me for a long time." He gives a small shrug, and his legs rise and then settle on the coffee table. When he meets my gaze again he bares his teeth and gives a low snarl. "But let's be perfectly fucking clear. If you ever touch me, or let anyone _else_ touch me without my explicit fucking permission, I'll break your nose. That sound fair enough to you?"

I smirk at the reversal of my own words, and then shift my head in a nod. "Yeah. Sounds fair." I pause, and Jason holds my gaze without even an ounce of anything I'd expect from a slave. "For what it's worth," I start slowly, "I really am sorry."

"It's not worth much," he snaps, but then he swallows and his gaze lowers for a second. "But thanks anyway." He doesn't look at me for a couple of moments, the silence feeling strained and tight. Then he tilts his head and shifts to cross his arms over his chest. "You keep it free for a couple hours, or cover it with something like saran wrap if you're worried about infection."

"What?" Of course it's only after I've said it that my brain connects his words back to me offering to wrap that new brand. "Oh, got it. Okay."

Jason snorts, rolling his eyes. "Once the first couple hours are past then you wrap it — loosely — with something absorbent. If you want it flat, you let it heal. If you want it raised, you aggravate it as it tries. Keep scratching the scabs off, scrub salt on it, whatever. Do it carefully enough you get raised scars but keep the clean lines." He meets my eyes, and his gaze is steady but guarded. At least he doesn't seem angry anymore, at least not at me. "Slave brands are raised, so they can't be hidden with tattoos. So are owner brands. Punishment marks are usually flat, so they don't disrupt how the skin feels."

He falls silent, and I ask, "You just picked all of that up?"

Jason's mouth curls into a sharp sneer for a second, but I swear it's like he's looking through me, not at me. I'm _not_ the one that expression is aimed at. "No," he admits. "Torturers like to talk. What they're going to do to you, what _other_ people are going to do to you. Most of the bastards never shut up; _hate_ it when you talk back." He gives a sharp grin, all teeth and no humor. "Got _really_ good at that."

I swallow. The idea of Jason _provoking_ his trainers is insanity. "Why would you do that?"

"Think I'm crazy?" Jason's question is frank, but then he shrugs — not even _wincing_ at how it moves his shoulder — and lowers his gaze. "I'm not. Didn't snap in there; didn't break. You piss someone off they just want to _hurt_ you, and they stop thinking straight. Easier to take rage than plans, and there was always the chance one of them would fuck up. One scar would have been enough."

That's almost suicidal, but I can't blame him for that. I know some of what trainers do to people with the goal of breaking them, and if Jason was subjected to even _half_ of the fraction that I know… It would be a miracle that he's still sane. It _is_ a miracle that he still has this much resistance left in him.

"How do you not have scars?" is the question that leaves my mouth. "Your accent is street, isn't it?"

"And yours isn't Gotham at all," he counters, meeting my gaze again. "King adopted you, right? I remember that, before the bastards picked me up. I'll tell you mine, you tell me yours. How the fuck does a kid that's not even local get picked up by the King of Gotham?"

It's… It's _fair_ , but that doesn't mean I like the idea of telling anyone my history. There's too many things in it that could get me in trouble. Then again, Jason is already going to know that I can fight and move better than anyone else thinks, which also means that he's going to find out I'm not just a shallow prince. As long as I leave out a few details, it should be just fine.

I give him a small smile. "I was a circus kid; no local accent because I grew up traveling from place to place. Picked up a bit of everything." My smile falls, and I duck my head a little bit. "My parents were killed at a show here in Gotham, and Bruce happened to be there. Guess he saw himself in me, because he took me from the circus and made me his son. I was lucky more than anything else. If he hadn't been there…"

I'd be in Jason's shoes.

Jason watches me for a long few moments, and then gives a slow nod. "My parents are dead too. Prison murder and overdose; not so glamorous. I was on the streets, and I was good at it. Took a couple beatings, but none were bad enough to leave me with any scars. Not a great life, but I was making it work, making a living. Got picked up by the police eventually though." Another shrug, and a flash of teeth that I can only barely call a smirk. "You probably know this, but when minors get picked up for crimes the payoff gets transferred to their parent or guardian. If you don't have one, and you can't pay the fine, you get sold to a slave house to pay off whatever you owe.

"I don't have scars because I was good enough to avoid anyone dangerous enough to give them to me, and because I was lucky. Or unlucky, really." He gives a soft snort. "If I'd known any of that at the time I probably would have taken a knife to my own skin. Ruined the canvas."

I wince, but lower my head in agreement. Bad as it sounds, it's a rational way to think of things. If Jason had given himself obvious enough scars he wouldn't have been worth the time of trying to really break, not even with the bonus of that white streak in his hair. Which, speaking of…

"That streak?" I ask, with a small flick of my hand up towards his hair.

He shrugs. "No idea. Had it as long as I can remember. Just bad luck, I guess." I shift forward a bit, and just like that he's watching me again. All that wariness right back in his eyes.

"We kind of got off on the wrong foot," I say with a small smile. "I know that none of this is fair, and all of it is bullshit, but maybe the two of us can start over?" I offer my hand over the table between us. "I'm Dick Grayson, it's nice to meet you."

He stares at me for a moment, and then leans forward over his legs and takes my hand. His grip is strong as he shakes my hand and gives a small, crooked grin. "Jason Todd. Reserving judgment so far, but at least you're not a _total_ dick."

I echo his grin, and shake my head as I give a small laugh. "I can work with that."


	3. Chapter 3

Welcome back! So, couple quick notes before we get started (for those who don't follow me on Tumblr or missed my post). I've got some prompts from the 100 themes thing to post, which are going to go up Wednesdays and Sundays; other chapters will go up Monday/Friday as usual! (No interruption, I promise!) You saw the first one yesterday! Secondly, pretty soon I'm going to be starting up a . If there's anything specific you want to see in reward tiers, let me know! I have a list already, but I want to make sure I'm not missing anything obvious, and I'd love to hear your ideas!

 **Warnings** this chapter for: mentions of starvation, sensory deprivation, attempted slavery of a kid, and branding.

* * *

It's totally fucking surreal. The whole thing feels like it's just some bizarre, optimistic dream and at any moment I'm going to be shocked back to reality with a bucket of ice water.

It's strange to be wearing clothing again; the brush of it against my skin keeps making me think — for singular, intense seconds — that someone's touching me. I still feel weirdly light, like without the missing shackles around my wrists and ankles I might just float off into space. Feeling clean, and not the 'every centimeter scrubbed raw' kind of clean, is refreshing, and being able to get clean in water that wasn't either ice cold or not-quite-burning hot almost felt like it was some kind of trap.

It all feels like a trap.

I expect the dinner to be drugged; eat what I can manage before my stomach protests anyway. When Dick vanishes into a side room I expect him to come back with guards, not an armful of blankets and a pillow. Every single second I expect him to turn on me, to prove that this is all just some enormous, fucked up mind game. All of it is so unbelievable, why wouldn't that be the case? It makes more sense than this strange parallel universe where the heir to the throne of Gotham treats me, a branded, rebellious, violent slave, like a real person. The only thing that makes sense is the raw ache of the new brand on my shoulder, so that's what I center myself with.

By the time Dick murmurs something like a good night, smiling a little awkwardly, and heads off into what I assume has to be his bedroom, I feel worn thin. My skin crawls, and I hate the reason for it but I can feel that wary fear in the back of my skull anyway. The last time I wasn't touched, wasn't _hurt_ , for this long, was when they had to let me recover after the last dislocation of my right shoulder. They went after me with all that stored venom afterwards; it probably would have been easier to just take it while I was still healing.

I grit my teeth and shove away that wariness, stubbornly arranging the blankets on the couch and slipping between them, ignoring all the ingrained instinct that says this is too nice, too good, that it has to be fake. It's just meant to hurt more later on. Like those meals that were a spread of food, designed to make me eat more than my stomach could actually handle so I'd just lose it all anyway.

Joke was always on them; growing up on the streets meant I knew how to be careful with a shrunken stomach, regardless of how instinct said to just eat it all, as fast as possible. It didn't stop them from starving me, or denying me water, but at least I already knew what that felt like.

They couldn't break me, not in any way that mattered.

I don't think I'll ever be 'normal' again, whatever the fuck that even means, but at least I'm not what they tried to make me. Their only victories are the brand on my shoulder, and the tight little knot in my gut that expects pain to come every single second I behave in ways that they ground into me were 'disobedient.' My mind and my body are my own, and _fuck_ them for ever thinking they could change that.

I shift in the makeshift bed, sliding one arm below the pillow to try to level out the angle of my neck. It's still not comfortable, and irritably I shove the pillow down to the floor and try just lying on my arm instead. It's a little better, but none of it is _comfortable_.

My breath catches on a hysterical little laugh when I realize that it's _too_ comfortable. The couch is too soft, the blankets feel strange on my skin, and the room is silent in a way that feels oppressive. Too full of theoretical traps, too unfamiliar for the silence to be welcome. I'm too open just lying here, and that feeling goes back to way before the slavers ever got ahold of me.

I slowly pull myself off the couch, sore muscles protesting the movement now that I've been still for a bit, and I pull the largest of the blankets with me. I find the one completely empty corner and go to it, pressing my back to the walls and dragging the blanket over me. From here I've got a view of any way people could get in — exit to the rest of this place, door to Dick's bedroom, and two other doors that are closed and I never got the chance to look into — and there's no possible way anyone could sneak up on me. Head on, I've got more of a chance.

Paranoia still keeps me awake, but at least there's security in the press of the wall against my back, and the carpet beneath me feels more familiar than the couch did. Even with exhaustion weighing down my bones, I can't shake the way my skin's crawling, or the way the silence presses down on my shoulders.

It reminds me of the stretches of time where they used silence as a weapon, and what I thought was comforting suddenly became something to be feared instead. Sensory deprivation was one of the worst things I remember, though I did my damndest to never let them know quite how badly it scared me. Thankfully they only did it every once in awhile; most of the trainers preferred to be much more hands on.

If they'd realized how badly it shook me, maybe they would have been successful in breaking me after all. Maybe I would have been eating out of some rich bastard's hand by this point. It's a sick thought, but my head goes a lot of sick places these days.

I try and push the thoughts away, letting myself exist in a kind of daze that just might eventually manage to get me to drop off to sleep. It has before.

But then, who knows how much longer later, there's movement. My gaze snaps up as the door to Dick's room opens without a sound, and he steps into the doorway. He's wearing a set of what looks like black pajamas; a plain t-shirt and some sweatpants that fall right down to his bare feet. I watch him look towards the couch, stiffen just a little bit, and then scan the room with a quick turn of his head. It only takes him the one try to find me, and he hesitates for a moment before heading towards me.

I tighten my hands into fists inside the blanket and think about where I can hit to cause the most damage, so I have the best chance of getting out from underneath the blanket and through some other door before he recovers.

"Jason, hey." His voice is soft; he sounds tired and maybe a bit concerned. "Still awake? It's pretty early." I shrug, and he stops in front of me, looking down. "May I?" he asks, flicking one hand towards the wall at my side.

I glance at it, then draw the blanket a little tighter around my shoulders. "What am I going to do to stop you?"

"That's not—" Dick cuts off, and then sighs and steps forward, taking the spot against the wall anyway.

He's about two feet from me, but it feels too close now that my skin's crawling, now that _everything_ feels like a threat. I can't help watching him, my shoulders drawing up and my feet pressing against the ground, ready to move at any moment. I'm not bound anymore; I don't have to just take whatever he might try and do to me.

"Can't sleep?" he asks, after a few seconds of silence. I shake my head, just a little, and he flashes me a small, almost sad smile. "Yeah, me either." His gaze lingers, flicking down over the blanket and I _know_ he can't see anything but I still feel exposed and I _hate_ it. Even under clothes and a blanket it still feels like I'm pinned down and on display.

I can feel my mouth curl into a small snarl, practically more instinct now than it is any conscious response. Dick actually startles a bit, eyes widening, and then yanks his gaze away and to the floor.

"Shit, I didn't mean— Sorry. I wasn't—" He swallows, thunks his head back against the wall hard enough I can hear the sound. "Tongue's _useless_ today, apparently. What I mean to say is that I can see how tense you are, and I swear you don't need to be. I know you don't— I know you don't trust me, and I know there's not much I can do to fix that, but…" His head turns, gaze finding mine. "Can I show you something, Jason?"

"Depends on what it is," I answer, and he snorts.

His left hand rises to his right sleeve, hesitating when they touch it. Then he swallows again, curls his fingers beneath the sleeve, and tugs it up over his shoulder.

My breath catches hard in my throat.

There's a section of burned skin on the outside of his shoulder that stretch towards the back, intense on the outside and then lighter as it sweeps away. Like something was pushed against his shoulder and then dragged back. It's blurred and distorted but it's something that could definitely be the X of a slave brand, if you just imagine a little bit.

I stare at it for a few long moments, and then manage to unclench my throat enough to ask, "Is that a slave brand?"

Dick winces, fingers clenching tight in the sleeve he's holding up. "It was supposed to be." His voice is low, almost a whisper. "There's a uh… a tactic, that the shadier slave traders use." His jaw clenches, eyes closing for a second, before he can apparently bring himself to continue. "They listen to police radios, find kids that have just been orphaned, lure them away from any witnesses, and brand them. If any family is found later, or it turns out their parents _didn't_ have debts, they just claim it was a mistake. Too late to fix it, you can't reverse a brand, and without parents, no one else really wants to spend the money to go after them through the court system."

He pulls in a long, slow breath and looks back at me. "Bruce was at the show the night my parents were killed, he came looking for me after and found me just when they— He pulled me away from them, protected me. I got lucky and that's the _only_ reason they didn't get me. If this—" his fingers slide over the scar "—was a little cleaner, or Bruce had gotten there two _seconds_ later…"

"You'd be where I am," I finish, my hold on the blanket loosening.

But, "No," is his immediate answer. He meets my gaze again. "I know some of what they do to slaves to break them. Even what I know, I don't think I could have taken. I would have broken, Jason, and I'd be entertaining some rich crowd with acrobatics and then showing off how flexible I am in some bastard's bed whenever they wanted. Even now, if anyone saw this… There are a lot of people who would like Bruce out of power and me back in the gutter I came from." His head tilts back against the wall, a sharp laugh bursting out of his throat. "Can you _imagine_ the kind of money people would pay to have me as their slave? Even if Bruce didn't have a full blown coup on his hands, they'd parade me in front of his face at every event, every meeting…"

His eyes squeeze shut, fingers tightening down over the smeared brand. "I have nightmares about a lot of things, but that's definitely one of them." He hesitates, looks over at me, and then says, "Bruce doesn't know. Don't tell him?"

"Why are you telling _me?_ " is all I can manage in the face of that faintly pleading tone.

Dick gives a faint smile that doesn't even come close to reaching his eyes. "Because I've been sitting in there, thinking about what I'm going to have to do to convince everyone that I'm _possessive_ enough of you that I won't let anyone else even touch you, and that's—" He jerks his head in a small shake, even that hint of a smile fading away. "I needed you to know that even though I can't _possibly_ understand whatever they did to you, I'll _never_ support any kind of slavery and all of this… I hate it. I needed you to know that everything I said wasn't just words, not to me anyway. I thought that maybe trusting you…" His words trail off, but then he pulls in a deeper breath and finishes, "It might help you trust me. Eventually. I'm not expecting anything from you; you don't have to give me anything you don't want to."

I stare at the side of his head, and then carefully extract one hand from the blanket. Then I hesitate, and ask, "Can I?"

He looks over, following the line of my freed hand and its vague point down towards his scar. He meets my gaze for a moment, and then lets go of it with his own hand and nods. "Go ahead."

It feels a little strange under my fingertips, but it's not the raised, bumpy lines of my brand. It doesn't feel all that different. If you weren't paying attention, or you couldn't see it, you might not even feel the difference. It's clearly an _old_ scar; a lot older than mine, but the bastards didn't get ahold of me until I was fifteen and I don't… I don't know how long I was in there. I just know that how my scar healed, and how the edges have smoothed out, isn't nearly as much as his has.

Then again, mine was messed with to make sure that it stayed, and I'd bet that Dick got pretty much the best of care that he could. Minus taking him to see anyone that might have recognized it as a brand and reported it.

I let my hand linger. "Sorry," is what comes out of my mouth, and I honestly couldn't say exactly what it is that I'm apologizing for. Being a bastard to him? Being defensive? Or just being sorry that anyone ever tried to turn him into a slave too?

"I was lucky," he repeats, his voice soft. "You've got every right to hate me and every other person in this world who makes slavery possible, Jason. I don't blame you, and I won't try and justify any of it. But just… just know that we're trying. Bruce and I, we're trying to stop all of this. _Especially_ Bruce. He—" Dick gives another of those sharp bursts of laughter, shaking his head. "He drives me up the _wall_ sometimes, but he really is doing everything he can without getting us both killed. Most of it is backroom dealings, alliances, _politics_ that are so insanely difficult to negotiate and take _so_ long to get anywhere… Just, don't judge him for what happened earlier, alright? He's not great with any of this actually important social stuff, and out there most of it is a lie."

That faint smile comes back, and it actually reaches his eyes — still an impossible blue, even with the dim lighting — when he shrugs and adds on, "It's really up to you whether you prefer the lie of a personality he wears out there, or you can deal with him occasionally coming across as a totally inept moron who doesn't know how to feel anything or relate to people."

"Don't sound like great options."

Dick gives a softer laugh, and then, very slowly, his hand comes up and very lightly clasps over where mine is still resting on his shoulder. The smile he gives me is small, real, and he carefully squeezes my fingers as he murmurs, "He'll get less awkward as he gets to know you. I promise. He'll never stop being kind of an ass though, fair warning."

I manage a snort, and then my next breath comes easier and my skin stops feeling like there are ants crawling up my spine. Some of the tension eases out of my back, I squeeze his fingers as gently as he squeezed mine, and his smile gets a little bigger.

"Thanks," I whisper, and he won't know how much I mean it but that's alright.

The smile is the only real answer I get, before he goes on. "So, there's my reason for not being able to sleep. What about you?"

The hesitation is still there, but then I duck my head and admit, "It's too quiet, and the couch is too soft. It's— It's fucking _stupid_ but I just can't…"

"Hey, _nothing_ that affects you is stupid. What was done to you is probably going to leave a lot of weird things behind and _none_ of it is stupid, Jason. Whatever you want to change, we can work on that, but right now, why make this any harder than it already is?" I meet his gaze, and the lack of pity, or confusion, makes it easier to push away the shame in my gut. "Alright, too quiet and too soft? You can sleep in my room, if you want?"

I blink. His eyes widen.

" _Shit_. No— I didn't— I just meant that you might be more comfortable in my room, with me there and— Oh _god_ this is all coming out exactly _wrong_." His head thunks back against the wall again, and my mouth curls into a slight grin that feels strangely _real_.

"Want a shovel to help dig that hole?"

Dick smiles back, and he definitely look a little embarrassed. "I swear I'm usually smoother than this. The floor in my room is wooden instead of this carpet, is what I should have said. If you want to just bring the blankets and pillow in, you can sleep with as much or as little as you want and it might help. In the morning I can let Bruce know to get the hardest cot he can find, to start with, and maybe we can work up from there. And uh, I'll be in the room, so there will at least be some noise. Breathing, and I move around some. If you want to try?"

"That… That actually sounds good." Dick looks relieved, and I amend, "Better than sitting in a corner and not sleeping, anyway."

"Fair enough," he says with yet another small smile. "I'll grab what's on the couch. Meet you in there?"

"You're walking literally ten feet away," I grumble, as I almost reluctantly pull my hand from the loose grasp of his. "I don't think it's a case of 'meeting' you anywhere."

Dick's smile slides to a small grin as he pushes himself back up to standing and then offers me a hand. "Psh, criticizing my choice of words. Nitpicker."

I take it, and it still surprises me a little when the muscles in his arm tighten and he just pulls me right to my feet without a problem. I am not a small person, and I'm mostly muscle myself even though I know I'm underweight thanks to all the missed food. If he can just lift me to my feet like that, than Dick is a lot more muscle than he looks like at a first glance, which makes me wonder just how well it is that he can fight. They _said_ Dick would be teaching me.

" _Dick_ ," I counter, after a moment of rolling the insult around my head to make sure it's a gamble I want to take.

He rolls his eyes, snorts, and heads for the couch. "Oh yeah, never heard _that_ one before."

The lack of any retribution, or even obvious irritation, relaxes me a little, and I gather the blanket thrown around me into my arms and push out a slow breath as I watch Dick collect the rest.

Maybe he really is telling the truth. Maybe I'm as safe as I can be.

* * *

"So when do we get around to that whole 'teach me to fight' thing?" I ask bluntly, over the remains of the breakfast on the coffee table in Dick's sitting room area. "Not that I'm not enjoying the _great_ family-meal feel of this."

Bruce came back with food, about an hour after Dick and I woke up. He's been mostly silent, and Dick's been filling the silence but the longer it goes, the more strained his voice has been sounding. The whole thing is setting me on edge, which isn't really all that different but I kind of hate not knowing what's going to happen.

At least in the slavers' place, I could always count on there being more pain.

Bruce looks up at my question, meeting my gaze. He's in a finely pressed suit that looks like it costs more money than I've ever even seen, which contrasts pretty ridiculously with my borrowed sleep clothes and Dick's sweatpants and t-shirt. I cross my arms under his look, leaning back into the couch and doing honestly a really shitty job of trying to pretend that he's not unnerving me.

"Bruce…" Dick interjects, with just a hint of pleading to his voice. It probably doesn't help anything that Dick and I are at opposite ends of the couch, and Bruce is sitting in the chair across from us. It kind of makes it feel like us versus him.

Bruce glances over at him, and then very deliberately puts down the cup of coffee he had in both hands. "It's not." I stiffen, shock almost immediately bleeding into anger, but before I can shout any of that he continues, "Not yet."

I bite my tongue for half a second, take in a short, sharp breath to calm down just a _little_. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

I can see Dick wince out of the corner of my eye. Bruce doesn't seem phased.

"Your body needs time to recover and even out. Until it does that, you won't be doing _any_ strenuous physical activity, which would include teaching you combat." He's still, focused. It half looks like he's expecting me to leap across the table and strangle him. "I'm calling in an old friend of mine to give you a physical exam, and see if there's anything more serious than basic malnutrition and sleep deprivation that needs to be addressed. She'll be respectful, I promise."

"Her name's Leslie," Dick comments, and I glance over at him. "She shares our views."

"For now," Bruce says, like Dick never even spoke, "the two of you need to work out your public relationship. It's unlikely that no one saw me bring you in, and Jason can only stay out of sight for so long before it becomes strange. Today, both of you need to figure out exactly how to pull this off in public. Tomorrow you'll need to be seen, at least briefly."

My throat is tight, any kind of protest sticking in my throat because I _knew_. I _knew_ that this would have to happen. I knew that I would have to pretend to be a real slave in public.

"Dick, you know what's expected. Jason, this only works if you _cooperate_." He pauses, and eventually I catch on that he's waiting for some kind of confirmation from me.

I give a jerky nod, and manage a rough, "Yeah, I know."

Bruce echoes the nod — more smoothly — and then picks up the cup of coffee and gets to his feet. "I'll get clothes for tomorrow, and spread the rumor that you've picked up a slave and you're… exploring. Make it believable. You both understand that, don't you?"

Dick looks supremely uncomfortable, and a mixture of anger and helpless frustration makes me spit, "You mean make it believable that we've been fucking for a day and a half?" Dick _flinches_ , and that actually makes me feel just a little bit guilty. It's kind of nice to know that my new 'owner' is as uncomfortable and angry about this as I am. It almost makes me want to watch my mouth.

I get a vicious kind of satisfaction out of saying those things to Bruce, but… I'm not sure that Dick deserves any of it. He's just trying to make the best of a bad situation, like me, and he's been nothing but kind. I haven't been treated _kindly_ in a really, _really_ long time.

Bruce's jaw tightens a little bit, but instead of responding to my provocation he just looks at Dick and says, "Be out of sight when the servants clear this up. I'll be back later."

I watch him go, watch the door shut, and then spit out, "Sorry."

Dick startles a little bit before looking over at me. "Sorry? For what?"

I dig my fingers into my own arms, shrugging and looking away. "I shouldn't have said that."

There's a brief moment of silence, and then Dick murmurs, "It's fine, Jason. You were just saying what none of us had the courage to say out loud."

"It wasn't courage," I argue, meeting his eyes. "I said it because I knew it would hurt him. It was a really _asshole_ move and I shouldn't have done it. Sorry."

Dick gives a soft smile, and then shifts a little closer to me on the couch. He reaches out, pauses an inch before my skin and I don't _stop_ him so he gently touches my crossed arms and lets his fingers linger. "Don't worry about it. I think if anyone's entitled to a few snapped comments, it's you. This is… This is not going to be fun, and I don't blame you for being angry."

I can't find any kind of deceit in his gaze, and I can feel some of the tension draining out of me. "Thanks," I whisper, and it feels _just_ like last night. I still don't think Dick realizes how much I mean it.

He lightly squeezes my arm, and then pulls back. "Alright, so how about we go back into the bedroom, and we can talk this out? Do you want a shower first?"

"No. But… After, yeah. Definitely."

Dick winces, and then gets to his feet. "Yeah, that's fair. I uh…" He rakes a hand back through his hair, meets my gaze for just a second, and then winces a second time. " _I_ need a shower. I'm going to—" He flushes, deliberately doesn't meet my eyes as he makes a vague gesture at his lower half. "So there's a smaller chance of any uh… _inappropriate reactions_."

I snort, trying really hard not to think of my own 'reactions.' "Sure, go for it. Make some noise too; you want a rumor going that's the best way to start it."

It's kind of satisfying when he chokes, looking at me with wide eyes. Then gives an almost hysterical burst of laughter and mutters, "Okay, on the list of things I _never_ wanted to talk about with anyone I wasn't dating…"

I follow him up, and he takes half a step back to give me room which I actually appreciate, even as I tell him, "Get used to it. I've got this sneaking suspicion we're going to know each other way better than either of us wants to. Go jack off; I'll entertain myself."

He shakes his head, gives me a look that's halfway between a smile and a wince. "Yeah, probably. So I'll just— Okay. I am going to try _really_ hard not to remember you're in the next room."

He heads for the bedroom, and I follow. I close and lock the door behind us, commenting, "I'm not some blushing virgin or anything, you know. I'm not going to faint from shock just because you're moaning." I take a seat on the end of his bed, leaning my back against one of the wooden supports of the four-poster.

Dick is watching me, and it's almost too quiet for me to hear when he says, "I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

And god, the look in his eyes is so fucking _sincere_.

I snort, setting my head back against the wooden support and drawing my legs up onto the bed. "I'm going to be really fucking uncomfortable this whole day no matter what. Don't worry about it, Dick. Go make noise. Have a good time."

Dick's mouth opens like he's going to say something, and then closes again. He nods, looking just a little miserable, and heads for the bathroom.

I close my eyes, lean against the solidity of the wood, and try to push away the memories lingering at the back of my skull.


End file.
